


Postcards

by Linane



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Holiday feel, M/M, Place-linked, Pointless fluff, Recovery, Slice of Life, Summer, With a tiny bit of anguish, travel AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2020-08-14 09:36:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20190142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linane/pseuds/Linane
Summary: A series of short stories about Fili, Kili and... places.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dragonsquill (dragonsquill)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonsquill/gifts).

Fili paints for himself.

Kili says it's because painting allows his mind to settle down, focus for a while on bright colours, light and shapes, and gives him the perfect excuse for people watching.

He never considers going professional, content with a little bit of recognition from the locals and an occasional compliment from tourists. Kili's delighted smiles are a reward enough.

While Fili paints, Kili bakes.

Strudels, cream cakes, tarts, pastries, little treats full of calories and happiness. Unlike Fili, Kili bakes almost exclusively for others, only nibbling on his creations for the purposes of quality control. Fili patiently suffers through an array of mouth-watering smells wafting from the kitchen, occasionally caving in and sneaking in to steal a bite.

It's peaceful and quiet nowadays, and they like it that way.

They've always known they could only go through life together and the discovery that this wasn't how brothers usually felt about each other in their early teens only made them more determined.

By the time Fili reached 25 and Kili 22, they knew what they had to do.

They were going to sit their parents down and calmly explain how they felt. That they had to be together. That it wasn't anybody's fault. That they were in love.

They would leave if they had to.

In the end it wasn't anywhere near as complicated as that.

Before they had the chance to put their plan into action, their parents were killed in an avalanche during a skiing holiday. The problem disappeared.

The grief and guilt nearly broke them. But who could they turn to, choking on tears and not sure how they might ever go on, if not each other? So Fili held Kili and Kili held Fili and neither let go. Nobody else could ever understand how they felt.

They don't talk about that time; they can't.

They couldn't stay at their childhood home, not if they wanted for the cycle of misery to ever end. It didn't come as too much of a surprise when they decided to sell the house and a bit of land that belonged to the family for generations and just go.

For a time they lived in a battered caravan, hauled around by an old Volvo estate. For days they just drove, not caring where they ended up, stumbling around across the whole continent. The first time Kili found something of interest in the area in a guide book at a petrol station, it was just a distraction. Slowly, eventually, curiosity won and places became no longer just something to get through; they became destinations.

They learned a lot during that time, _saw_ a lot. Life has a tendency to suck you in, once you've seen enough of it. For a time, travelling became their religion, gave them the perspective they badly needed.

The guesthouse in a port town they both fell in love with was Fili's idea, even though it was Kili who studied tourism and hospitality, while Fili took his first shaky steps in diplomacy. They had the money from the sale of the house, which finally went through, and they reckoned their respective degrees would give them at least a fighting chance. A new beginning so to speak.

They had _no idea_ what they were doing.

That was 5 years ago.

Nowadays things tend to work a little bit better: Fili checks in the guests and looks after their finances, Kili bakes his cakes and takes the new arrivals on a little orientation stroll. They both scrub the bathrooms and wash the sheets after. It's hard work sometimes, but they enjoy making other's experience of their town a magical one.

On the weekends and once during the week, for a couple of hours only, they also open a little cafe at the front. Kili gets the chance to share his creations and chatter with the tourists and Fili sketches or paints to his heart's content, helping serve or clear the plates if it gets busy or if Kili falls too deep into conversation.

The passing stream of people suits them just fine. Nobody stops for long enough to recognise quite how well their habits fit together. The locals consider them to be a cute couple and if asked directly about their relationship, they simply say they met via their business when it was only a fledgling idea.

Life goes on despite what they once thought. They go shopping together, stroll down the promenade and through the narrow winding streets and courtyards they know like the back of their hand. They collect the stories carried in on the words of strangers. They laugh and roll around in the sheets and mock-wrestle like they're still 17.

Fili paints the town square and the church, the view from the city walls, shaded courtyards and the marina full of pleasure boats. He's done it all before, but that's not the point; it makes him happy.

It's Kili who finds a local place that puts Fili's paintings on post cards and places them on display for passers-by with an honesty box next to them.

And Fili loves him for that too, just like he loves him for a million other little things with all his heart.

\---

Bilbo is a writer, but he also indulges in watercolours from time to time as a hobby.

One day close to midnight he appears on the guesthouse’s doorstep, with a boy aged no more than 10 glaring at them rebelliously from behind the grown-up.

Fili and Kili exchange glances and usher the pair into their best room, the one with the view of the sea. Check in to be sorted in the morning, fresh towels and sheets appearing within moments, along with a tray laid with a terrifyingly colourful teapot (Fili’s brief experiment with porcelain paints) and several sandwiches.

They’ve been the ones to knock on someone’s door close to midnight before; they know the sort of desperation that drives one to do it.

Bilbo and Frodo end up staying for close to 3 months.

It’s Bilbo who first talks to them openly, plainly about loss and mourning, having lost his sister and her husband only two months prior and finding himself responsible for a care of a child. It’s Bilbo who teaches them how to deal with it, how to work through their emotions instead of running away from them.

In return they spoil Frodo rotten with Kili’s baking and plot mischief with him like they never grew up. They stay up until ungodly hours with Bilbo, telling him stories of their adventures and let him incorporate them in his new book. They provide a home from home for Bilbo and Frodo, ensuring that they lack for nothing and always feel welcome.

Bilbo ends up painting more than he has in years.

His style is different to Fili’s, more precise in the gentle watercolours than the oils Fili cheerfully splatters all over his canvas. But they both capture the same town: the sea, the light, the simple yet beautiful architecture and a sense of quiet history in every cobbled stone. And if the two of them side by side with their canvas attract some extra visitors to the café, Kili certainly doesn’t appear to begrudge them.

Bofur is Kili’s favourite greengrocer in town.

With several orchards and a small vineyard on the gentle slopes surrounding the city, his fruit is to die for, responsible for at least half of Kili’s bakery triumphs. He has his stand in the square almost a mile away, but the trip is well worth it when Fili patiently holds their shopping basket for Kili to fill as he chatters, appraises the produce and picks out the exact fruit he wants, simultaneously trying to gauge what will be at its best in a week or two.

Some days it can take a while.

It’s Kili who first introduces Bilbo to Bofur during one of his errand trips.

The exchange between the two of them (slope gradient, pest control, pruning trees, recent weather, pollination…) is one of the most intense Kili has ever seen, leaving him and Frodo somewhat side-lined to picking up the shopping.

It’s also Kili who first catches on to what is actually going on when Bilbo offers to pick up the groceries for him next time.

What follows is a 6 week phase of fruit tarts, compotes, jams, strudels and pies. The café opens 3 times in the week to try and shift all that deliciousness and Fili is told to eat more cake in the name of love, which he obediently does without complaint.

In the end, as best as they can tell, Bilbo and Bofur fall in love over haggling.

Bilbo makes a formidable opponent and it’s just about possible that Bofur asks him to move in with him so he can have him on his side of the stall.

The view from the orchards is superb too, as it turns out, perfect for the more abstract splattering of watercolour instead of the straight lines of the town up close.

Fili appreciates it too, trying out new angles from different vantage points, spotting things in Bilbo’s paintings he’s missed, watching Kili storm the house wielding a handful of ripe apricots and demanding control of the oven.

Within two years, Bilbo has his own foodie place up and running and another book out. He’s also married to a certain produce seller, which gives him excellent discounts. Frodo stays at the guesthouse overnight sometimes, especially if he’s got late classes at the school in town. Kili starts a blog which is an odd mix of history titbits and cake recipes, which gains him a small but devoted collection of fans from all around the world.

And Fili?

Fili accidentally sells one of his paintings to a super-rich patron for a round sum of money with more zeros than he’s ever seen in a row. Slightly alarmed, they pay it into a bank account, meticulously write down the details at the back of Kili’s recipe notebook and promptly forget all about it.

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story started life as a series of actual postcards I have sent to DragonsQuill over the years from my various holiday destinations. Scribbled in squished hand writing all over the space available on the back, it was an AU that concentrated on the places and the feel of them, and on what Fili and Kili would think of them if they were visiting. I just needed an excuse to send them all over the world, as tourists, travellers and intrepid explorers this time.
> 
> It all started because I was charmed by the old winding streets of an seaside town that made me happy, an honesty box built into the stone wall of a building and a pile of oil-painting postcards next to it. It's not particularly clever or particularly good writing, but it does hold a special place in my heart.
> 
> There are 2 chapters ready at the moment, but the idea is to keep updating it as and when I go to new places, so it probbaly won't be very fast.
> 
> Finally, I had to borrow the work of an existing artist to show the sort of art that Fili would be producing. You can find more of this artist's work [here](https://artnow.ru/en/gallery/3/38138/picture/0.html).


	2. Chapter 2

The trip to Venice is an accident.

Fili is the one who enjoys doing an occasional crossword, although if curled up comfortably and petted, Kili doesn’t mind giving him a hand too. Kili is also the one who sends off all the password slips, joking that if they ever win a fortune, he’ll take Fili on a trip around the world with him, as his ‘gentleman of leisure’.

And then one day they do win, except it’s not quite the fortune they imagined.

Two nights in a fashionable little boutique hotel in the heart of Venice. Housewives in need of a little romance all around the world are turning green.

Only Fili and Kili have romance in spades and they’ve heard horror stories of the place during their own travels. Still, seems silly, having won, not to go.

How bad can it be?

Rialto Bridge is under siege.

They cross it (it’s just a thing to do here Fili, and anyway, how else are we going to get the perfect view of the Canale Grande?), holding hands and hyper-aware of the exact position of their wallets on their persons.

On the other side restaurants across what little pavement there is, and everyone is hell-bent on feeding them prawns for some reason. Kili is starting to turn green from the smell so Fili promptly shoves him into one of the little side-streets. It’s quieter here and there are barely any people. They watch the river of tourists roll past them without paying them any mind – clearly that’s the patent for exploring the _real_ Venice.

They don’t think particularly hard when they join hands once more and dive into the mysterious maze of houses, alleyways, gates and piazzas.

Within ten minutes they’re lost.

Half-distracted by stunning architectural detail on every corner, wondering what the walls around them have witnessed over the centuries, awed by ornate churches and charmed by the little pot gardens everyone seems to keep on their roofs and balconies, they allow themselves to dip in and out of the tourist highways without any real aim in mind.

It takes them two hours to make it back to Rialto Bridge.

“This again,” Fili growls, but Kili leans in to kiss him and that makes everything better.

They find a spot, briefly, against one of the balustrades and stop to admire the view. Or Fili does anyway, while Kili steals a quick glance at his brother.

“You okay?”

“I will be. It’s just… busy here.”

This is true enough, so Kili moves to wrap his arms around him instead, partly to act as a barrier against the crowds, partly to free up some space for others. He’s pleased to feel Fili’s muscles relax against him. “C’mon, let’s get out of here.”

Saint Mark’s square, as it turns out, is under more than a foot of water.

At least it has the benefit of filtering off tourists somewhat, so with a shrug they take off their trainers, roll up their trousers and wade in, mentally promising themselves to scrub their legs as soon as they’re back to the hotel.

“If this is what it’s like with water up to our knees, how busy is it when it’s dry?” Kili wonders.

Fili doesn’t respond, because in his case the water reaches quite a bit over his knees and his favourite jeans are getting wet. As Kili takes several obligatory snaps of the Basilica, Fili watches some wet pigeons, all fluffed up on top of railings and eyeing both the tourists and the seagulls with deep annoyance. He thinks he knows how they feel.

The inside of the Basilica is as magnificent as they expect it to be, if an absolute death-trap with wet, polished marble floors.

“I can’t help but wonder where each piece of marble, each gem originally came from,” Fili whispers, coming to an easy stop next to Kili admiring a fresco on the ceiling.

“I was just thinking the same thing,” his brother grins and they have always been like-minded.

By the time they get out, they’re starving, only they’re in the wrong part of the city now: everything is at least 3 times as expensive for the tourists. In the end they grab a quick slice of pizza each and practically inhale it, sitting on the steps of one of the smaller, less frequented bridges. This at last gives them the chance to watch the locals, who have somehow made a life for themselves in this hive of activity. It’s reassuring to see that the world hasn’t gone mad after all.

Before the sun sets, there is just about enough time for a leisurely stroll along the water front, watching the mass exodus into the waiting ferries. It’s at that point that a friendly German tourist manages to take the one good photo of them, with the Bridge of Sighs painted all pink and golden in the background. They look tired but happy – Fili at the front, Kili wrapped up around and behind him.

They are, after all, together.

\---

Fili looks like he expects the pillow on which he’s sleeping to be snatched from under his arms at any second.

This is not a natural state of Fili’s slumber, so Kili leans down to kiss the little constellations of freckles across his shoulders and telegraph some love back into that preoccupied head of his.

“Mmmmmfh,” Fili offers by the way of greeting.

“Good morning to you too, sunshine of my life.”

“Mmmm,” his brother agrees and one sleepy blue eye blinks at him several times, before softening and creasing along a delicate network of laugh lines.

Kili kisses the nape of his neck. “Ready to face the world again?”

The response is mumbled into the pillow still held hostage, but Kili is an expert interpreter of Fili’s husky, morning drawl.

“And what new torture have you lined up for me today?” is what his brother says.

Kili thinks of Fili’s paintings, of the watercolours he’s brought along with him in place of his usual oils, partly because they’re easier to transport and partly because he’s been spending too much time with Bilbo recently. He thinks of the peace in his eyes when he paints and tries to imagine it working, somehow, here in Venice.

“Actually,” he murmurs up close, easily moving one long leg across the back of Fili’s thighs, “I’ve been thinking…”

“Not again –“ Fili quips, but yelps when Kili nips his ear in retaliation.

“First,” he kisses along Fili’s spine and across his shoulder blades, feeling them shift under his skin, as Fili makes himself even more comfortable, “I’m going to have my wicked way with you. To take your mind off yesterday, so your natural Filiness equilibrium can be restored, and because I really, really want you, Fee…”

“Wouldn’t want _my Filiness_ all jumbled up,” Fili agrees, somehow managing to keep his voice playful and casual, despite the shiver that runs through his whole body.

“Then you’re going to want to take a nap, which will work wonders on your grumpiness levels, while I’m going to venture out into the world and hunt down some breakfast for us.” A kiss to the dip in Fili’s spine along his waist. “And once we’ve eaten, you’re going to have your wicked way with me.”

“I am?”

“You are.”

“Your Kiliness levels –?“

“I was there too. It’s only fair.”

“Right. I can do that.”

Kili allows himself a triumphant little smile. “And then I’m going to take you somewhere. No, don’t ask – it’s a surprise! But I think you should take your paints with you, or at least a sketchbook.”

“Kili, I’m not really in the mood –“

“Trust me,” he whispers and watches Fili close his eyes in sleepy contentment. Now this is more like what Kili had in mind when he planned a romantic get-away, but it could still be improved on.

“Alright,” Fili agrees finally. “Now then – about my equilibrium…”

\---

“Where is everyone?!” is Fili’s first question upon arrival at Chioggia – Venice’s less loved sibling.

“Well, it’s Thursday, so I suppose people have things to do, places to be,” Kili shrugs, sprawling back in his wicker chair, lined with cushions.

It’s lucky really that they arrive around lunch time, since they’re greeted by a charming waterfront promenade, full of cafes and al fresco restaurants, practically empty at this time of the day.

Across the table from him Fili is sipping his wine and eyeing his surroundings with quiet delight. Somewhere in the distance someone is whistling and their waiter is deep in an animated discussion with a local passer-by. Things are finally back to how they should be – for a quick search on his phone early in the morning, Kili thinks he’s hit the jackpot.

Having eaten, they make their way along Canale Vena first, strolling leisurely along its banks and crossing from one side to the other over the little bridges just because they can. Then it’s only a minute or two along a quiet side street to the town’s main strip, which very obviously started life as yet another canal and has since been covered over. It’s interesting to see a proper market stretching the length of the street and they briefly wonder what Bofur would make of this place.

They wander from stall to stall, buying sweet, ripe peaches and a little fridge magnet for Kili’s collection, then spot one of the old-fashioned writing supplies shops, similar to the ones in Venice, only much, _much_ cheaper.

“This sort of paper would be ideal for watercolours, actually,” Fili insists, stroking three beautiful, hand-bound notebooks with fancy, rustic pages.

“We should probably get them then,” Kili nudges his overly-sensible brother, “and we need bookmarks. Pick one.”

He chuckles when Fili helpfully passes him one he likes. They could stay in this shop forever, reverently touching the beautiful, tightly-bound spines and marble paper covers, but there are churches to be explored and a palazzo with gardens open to the public.

As the sun slowly sets over Chioggia, it finds them sitting on the steps of a yet another bridge, Fili sketching furiously in his old sketchpad, using Kili’s back as a table. Not that Kili minds – he’s watching the locals meeting up for dinner, drinks and gossip, and he knows he will get the first glimpse of Fili’s latest creation.

It’s dark by the time they board the water tram back to Venice, but they’re still buzzing with excitement over this place and they won’t forget it in a hurry.

It’s only later that evening, when they’re lazily flicking through the photos on their phones that Fili pauses at the ones from Venice.

“I’m not going to paint Chioggia,” he decides, making Kili look up.

“You’re not? I thought you enjoyed it.”

“I did. Which is why I’m going to stick to painting Venice. Venice, you see, has been discovered by the world and learned to live with its fame. Chioggia though is still just a sleepy little town, with a handful of true devotees visiting, like us. And I’d rather keep it that way.”

Kili can’t really argue with that.

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am yet again borrowing the work of another artist to display Fili's style. You can find more of their work [here](https://fineartamerica.com/profiles/lucio-campana.html).


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would suggest reading once without clicking the links and then again, with the links. Otherwise it will keep taking you out of the story.

Poznan is a city where people live, not visit.

For a grey Monday in October, blessed with some iffy weather, the only handful of tourists they encounter congregates just before 12 in front of the [City Hall](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/linane/11800035/215559/215559_original.jpg) for the display of butting rams.

But Fili and Kili are not among them; instead they’re inside a XV century town house right _above_ the tourists, [learning how to make St. Martin’s Croissants](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/linane/11800035/217011/217011_original.jpg).

Except, in a cruel twist of fate, it’s Fili, who’s been picked to roll up the finicky dough together with the white poppy seed filling.

Kili is practically vibrating, from where he’s been cruelly _overlooked_ among the audience.

“This requires more than just the one pair of hands,” Fili mutters rebelliously, because between the two of them, a blind man would have still picked Kili for this kind of work. “_Kili_, you fancy lending me yours?” he nominates, before the guy in charge can pick someone else, or worse yet, take over himself.

Kili, obviously, does. He very, very much does.

He moves in with a lifetime of experience of taking over various pots and pans, which Fili sometimes kindly agrees to stir or watch over for him for a couple of minutes.

And then he goes on the offensive:

“So what’s in this filling, did you say? In what proportions, exactly? And what temperature do we want to keep the dough? Does the working surface matter, or can it be any odd counter top?”

Pleased with himself, Fili moves aside and reaches for his camera to document his brother interrogating the secret, culinary knowledge out of the unsuspecting Pole.

Unlike most other visitors, who are happy enough to be entertained by a witty demonstration, a dramatic legend re-telling and an interesting bit of history associated with the pastries, Kili is here for one purpose, and one purpose only: to master the way of the croissant. He will want to try these at home, and then he’ll probably want to develop his own variation for the café.

All of which Fili is in favour of.

For a moment he gets distracted by the beautiful Renaissance interior they’re in: the lavishly decorated ceiling with swirling motifs and colourful stripes in between the ancient, elaborately carved wooden beams. He snaps a [photo](https://previews.dropbox.com/p/thumb/AAyY10dInzlcrG9iIv4kqzjLu7Tnb8ANMEt2tTlkaKTNf0kUyw4bK8IwHHfy_eUhKAZ_NU577GzstJOb7CkS2Apq_xJgiN0JGf6hgasVrYcUJJ1lOf5b2oqWcMGIMjnP-rFZaYXpHkORxPYYUYC6ELLnvqLn2tMZHQ3EqiFdpYMNON98zRnR4MKF0TR0fDw3Mat8VQIDNlqJggCN48vuvcxPgKtKsHjBnsTP7VirX15cosXxmFXmsh7y-EfSelSa_LxADtbo6T41TR1asPRZJh9uTGkEgMvv_jsBtbUevmomnhumY-HEgi_HPzhthdiIU3gucQEIIskN2ouq1T9uTNIK/p.jpeg?fv_content=true&size_mode=5) of that too and it occurs to him that some 600 years ago some poor bugger painted that ceiling by hand. He stares at the walls, with holes from the where the scaffolding used to go to prop them up as the mortar dried, and the creaking oak floorboards, once more trodden by merchants of sorts.

Poland lives and breathes its history.

By now Kili is cheerfully slapping on the egg wash, liberally sprinkling his creation with chopped nuts and marching right past Fili towards the oven, and what temperature should he set it up to?

Which is amusing for two reasons: one, because Fili is fairly certain that some other ‘volunteers’ were meant to do the later stages of the preparation, and two, because in the entrance by the counter an uncertain-looking assistant is already hovering with a steaming [tray of pre-baked pastries](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/linane/11800035/216583/216583_original.jpg).

“Kili. Kili, let go of the croissant.” Fili liberates the tray from his brother’s hands and helpfully sets it back on the table.

“But –“

“No, let go. It’s okay. Mr Baker can handle it from here,” Fili re-assures, taking his hand and pulling him back towards the benches.

There are a few ‘awww’s from the audience when Kili, miffed, but used to taking it on faith when it comes to Fili, obediently follows.

They are finally allowed to sink their teeth into the warm, crumbly goodness just as the clock outside strikes noon. Below the wide-open windows the tourists stir in excitement as the small door on top of the Town Hall’s tower opens and two mechanical goats slowly, majestically ride forward.

_It may not be the life we originally wanted, but it’s a good one,_ Fili thinks, watching Kili chew his croissant with an expression of a Michelin star assessor and [watch the goats](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DVQX1d7F-0w) sort out whatever differences they appear to have by repeatedly pretend-butting their heads together.

He lifts his camera one more time and snaps what will become his favourite shot from this city: Kili, against the backdrop of some shutters and the original, dark brick interior, half a croissant in his hand and looking up with an expression of pure delight.

\---

There is so much to see in this city, they don’t quite know where to begin.

They spend the rest of the day just holding hands and wandering around to take in the sights: colourful little houses, fountains and beer gardens of the [Old Town Square](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/linane/11800035/222696/222696_original.jpg), beautifully tiled [courtyards](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/linane/11800035/224030/224030_original.jpg) of old tenements, [ornate churches](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/linane/11800035/218026/218026_original.jpg), a [communist-themed pub](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/linane/11800035/216233/216233_original.jpg), a bookshop inside what must have been a prominent palace once, and there, at the adjacent tourist information point, a contraption called the ‘[Photoplasticon](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/linane/11800035/221065/221065_original.jpg)’.

It looks like a giant barrel, taking up almost an entire room, with a series of seats set up around it, above each of them a set of binoculars pointing inwards. For a laughably small price the ‘wardrobe of tricks’, as Fili christens it, presents them with no more, no less, but pure magic.

The photos, taken using a special, stereoscopic camera, record two slightly offset images simultaneously, which are then [presented in front of each lens](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w0YIkdkhJds) to give the viewer a stunning 3D effect. They cover over [150 years’ worth of everyday life in the city](https://cyryl.poznan.pl/index.php?lang=en), its history and its people.

Fili and Kili are blown away – it’s such an _intimate_ record of lives and moments in time, it’s a real privilege to be able to witness it.

“We should make a time capsule,” Kili declares a’propos of nothing, once they’re outside. “Put it inside the brickwork next time we’re renovating a room, for someone else to find centuries later.”

Yes. Yes, they should – Fili likes the idea instantly. “What would we put in it though?”

“The truth. A photo of you and me. A couple of your postcards. Maybe a recipe or two from me. Something to prove –“

“- That we lived and loved each other,” Fili finishes for him with a small smile.

He really wants to lean in and kiss him in that moment, but Poland isn’t the best of places for kisses in public. But it’s there, between them, nevertheless – obvious in the softening of Kili’s eyes, a little knowing smile of his own and a minute twitch of his fingers around Fili’s.

\---

The park is a quiet oasis in the middle of a city humming with activity, lined with huge, ancient plane trees clad in gorgeous hues of golden yellow, amber and ruby red at this time of the year.

Situated between the neoclassical building of the Opera House, an imposing XIX century castle and another richly-decorated, vaguely academic-looking building, with a giant fountain as the focus of the park, it’s also ideal for Fili’s watercolours.

They settle down, partly to rest their feet and partly to give Fili a chance to indulge his hobby.

“Do you suppose that history has its favourites?” Kili asks thoughtfully after a while, holding Fili’s water for him.

“If it does, it has a funny way of showing it,” the blond mutters, dabbing the first splashes of colour onto the paper. “I think it’s more that _people_ have their favourite sins: greed, xenophobia, illusions of grandeur… Why?” he throws a discreet glance at his brother. “Are you still thinking about the folks in the photographs?”

“A little,” Kili admits. “I’d love to know what happened to them. Some of those photos were pre-war and I want to know if they survived it. Where were they going when the photo was taken and why? Did they have good lives? Did they own the fancy camera that took the shots? Or was it just by chance that they happened to be there, forever immortalised in their worn boots and a woollen coat, just getting some milk?”

“I would think it was a coincidence. That’s the great thing about people, isn’t it? You never know just how you’re going to touch the lives of others, just by existing,” Fili murmurs with a small smile and focuses on trying to keep his sky colour out of his roof.

It proves to be somewhat tricky when the actual sky decides to ‘help’ with some extra water.

“We could try to move under a tree,” Kili suggests, because he knows the peace that must have settled in Fili’s eyes.

“Nah, it’s okay. Some memories are sweeter for lasting but a heartbeat,” Fili offers philosophically, sending his brother a grateful smile and moving to pack away his art supplies.

\---

Their hostel isn’t quite the original XV century building, but it’s not far off.

The first and second floors are from XV and XVI century, with third and fourth added in the 2nd half of the XIX century along with a partial re-build of the whole structure. It retains heaps of original features though, including wooden floors, decorated ceilings and an occasional inexplicable window arch in the middle of a wall.

The bunk beds in between it all look almost out of place, except perhaps it was always meant to be, since the tenement used to house a pension and even a microbrewery once before.

“Dibs on the top bunk!” Kili declares with all the urgency of a younger brother, within 2 seconds flat of entering their 6-bed dorm.

Fili rolls his eyes, but lets him have it. He will just kick at the mattress above him if Kili disturbs his beauty sleep.

An hour or so later Fili is back into his watercolours, having propped himself up on some pillows and switched on the little light mounted on the exposed brick wall. The comfortable silence in the room feels soothing after a day of adventures and persistent drizzle, until –

First, a dark-haired head appears upside down over the edge of the top bunk, peering down at what he’s doing.

Then extra pillows are tossed down, narrowly missing his cup of water.

Then a pair of socked feet clambers down, barely bothering with the ladder, and a duvet is dragged over the side of the top bunk to screen the bottom one.

“What’s that for?” Fili squints at the covers, as Kili neatly swings in and sets about fluffing up his pillows in the opposite corner of Fili’s bed.

“Cosiness.”

“People will think we’re up to god-knows-what in here.”

Kili snorts, tucks his feet carefully against the warm underside of Fili’s pulled up thighs. “You’re not _that_ quiet,” he announces to anyone who cares to listen. “Besides, this is the closest I got to having a blanket fort in almost twenty years and I’m _not_ missing this opportunity.”

Fili tries to look disapproving, he really does, but he has to admit that pooling all their soft resources together does create a cosy, private space in which Kili instantly relaxes and Fili feels content.

“Mind the water,” he grumbles instead and sets his cup on the narrow shelf under the light, just in case.

Having achieved what he wanted, Kili busies himself for a while flicking through the book about Poznan’s inhabitants, which Fili picked at the Photoplasticon place, leaving him to his art.

He doesn’t mind it when a while later Kili moves his nest to Fili’s end of the bed, slots himself neatly along his side and loosely wraps an arm over his shoulders so he can watch him paint. He doesn’t mind Kili: his soft silences, his unexpected patience, or his simple need for the little, intimate gestures.

He doesn’t mind little kisses pressed to his shoulder.

He doesn’t mind it when the messy head comes to rest on top of said shoulder, rubs there fondly a few times before settling down, or when the rain outside picks up violently, thundering with atmospheric pitter-patter over ancient roof tiles, hand-crafted windows and tin roofs.

He isn’t surprised by the first snores, not really. Kili has a lifetime of experience sleeping wherever Fili happens to be, just now having chosen the little-known pretzel position as his preferred sleeping arrangement.

Fili _should_ wake him up and send him back to his own bed, but what with Kili’s familiar warmth and the comforting sounds of the storm outside, he only huffs and yanks the rest of Kili’s duvet down instead so they can at least have some covers.

\---

“The Pope, surfing on top of a giant cheesecake slice.”

Fili lifts his camera, takes a [commemorative snap](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/linane/11800035/215540/215540_original.jpg).

It really is about the only way to describe the small statue not far from the [Poznan Cathedral](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/linane/11800035/214869/214869_original.jpg). They are familiar by now with how fond the Poles are of a good Pope statue. The monuments come thick and fast, but they tend to be the dignified, benevolent ones: smiling, blessing, opening his arms, with children, with goats, with communist-looking workers…

This is a brand new take on the saintly figure.

They don’t have long to admire though, because the skies open yet again and there’s nothing for it but to dash for the safety of the temple.

“What is this place again?” Fili whispers, slinking inside the dark interior.

“The first Cathedral. First church, in fact, in all of Poland. The christening of the nation. Lots of big, multi-syllable words,” Kili whispers back distractedly, already looking around curiously and moving to follow the Cathedral’s plan in an anti-clockwise direction.

The place [feels eerie](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/linane/11800035/214762/214762_original.jpg) – it’s very dim to begin with, barely lit by the beautiful, stained-glass windows high above, no artificial lights of any kind, despite the looming evening, and only a sporadic candle here and there. But it turns almost pitch black, when the storm moves in for good, enveloping the whole structure in ominous howling winds and a brutal battering of rain over the metal roofs and domes, only amplified by the carrying echo.

Suddenly Fili understands how the people who built this place would have been crystal clear on the existence of God. He’s not afraid – it’s more memorable and evocative than scary, but when a lighting cuts across the nearby ornate window and the thunder rumbles lowly through the very foundations of the Cathedral, their hands find each other all the same.

It seems fitting somehow that they are saved from the darkness by the little flickering flames of two tea lights, which Kili obtains by the way of dropping coins of literally _some value_ into the donation box at a side altar. They carefully light one from the other, take in each other’s dramatically illuminated faces in a wordless ‘you okay?’ and ‘yeah, you?’, and resume their tour hand in hand, like pilgrims.

The royal tombs in front of the [main altar](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/linane/11800035/214401/214401_original.jpg) stop them dead in their tracks.

“These are – Bo-les- law… - Kili, these are their very first kings!” Fili marvels, trying to decipher the golden letters embedded in the polished stone floor and compare them, using his limited candle light, to the leaflet he’s picked at the entrance. “It’s like their Westminster Abbey, their _Camelot_, their Tower of London, all rolled into one!”

Kili only smiles. “It gets better,” he whispers, gently pulling Fili in the direction of the far end of the cathedral.

Through a suitably ancient-looking door they descend down into the vaults beneath. And there it is: beautifully-lit Romanesque column bases, fragments of ancient walls, and, in the middle of it all, remains of a simple stone altar and a [giant baptismal basin](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/linane/11800035/215220/215220_original.jpg).

“You know, it always amazes me,” Kili, with his vibrant interest in history, murmurs, “when places known to be historical sites in the collective consciousness of the local people over the millennia, are archeologically excavated and turn out to be exactly what they’re supposed to be. This is one of those. They only found those after the WWII.”

But to Fili’s eyes there’s a bigger miracle playing out here. He looks up at his brother’s face and sees fascination and passion, curiosity and delight; and for that alone the Poles should be awarded a gold star for building their cathedral over a thousand years ago.

\---

“Turn around, Fee. Let me do your back.”

Fili flops over without complaint, crossing his forearms over the barrel’s edge and resting his chin on top of them both.

Behind him Kili squirts three quarters of the tiny bath cream bottle onto a sponge and proceeds to make Fili _incredibly_ happy, exuding the smell of jasmine and pine all over them both. It’s the manliest of the poncey ranges they had to choose from, but they will continue to smell of flowers for the hours to come.

It’s a price Fili is willing to pay.

The spa-like cosmetics are not what this is about for them; it’s about the place and the experience, and Fili’s eyes are quickly drawn to the original, 400-year-old bricks forming the candle-lit, vaulted ceilings above them. The room must have been a store once, lined with casks and chests, perhaps even bales of fabric and other fascinating things that Fili would have loved to see.

Their bath is situated in the cellar of the hostel and fitted with a giant fireplace, obviously moved here from another part of the building, to keep it wonderfully warm and dry. In front of it, a giant oak barrel has been set, lined with sheets and accompanied by everything else they might need: white fluffy towels, bath robes and more products than they can shake a stick at. The décor is completed by an impressive array of signs warning ‘CCTV in operation, absolutely no hanky-panky in the bath’, for once in a variety of languages.

The signs notwithstanding, it’s like a scene straight from the Middle Ages, and they have it all to themselves for two wonderful hours.

Kili booked the bath in the morning, before they left for the day, having demanded a translation of a funny-looking poster by the reception, which had them intrigued ever since they arrived. It was a surprise for Fili, who had only been told that they needed to purchase two pairs of swimming trunks and was left to imagine all sorts of bracing pond or river dips.

By now Fili is convinced that Kili is a genius: after a long day of walking, sight-seeing, tram riding, more walking and getting absolutely drenched, sinking into the steaming water is about as close to heaven as Fili ever got, from a non-sexual activity.

He moans his approval shamelessly and hopes that the cameras don’t register the sound, because if anyone was to come in right now and try to kick them out for indecent behaviour, they would have to roll Fili out together with his barrel.

Kili only chuckles, but it’s clear that he’s pleased with himself, if the way he’s taking ages to massage Fili’s back is any indication.

But Fili has a surprise of his own, and anyway, anything that feels _this_ good, has to be shared.

“Turn around, let me do yours,” he offers.

“In a minute, love.” Little kiss to the side of Fili’s head, making him tilt it helpfully and present more of his neck for the sponge-delivered, soapy rubs.

Clearly, an incentive is required.

“Remember the Paczki Street?” he starts seemingly a’propos of nothing.

Kili snorts, deciding that Fili’s chest needs soaping up as well, no, don’t turn around Fili, say the hands that manhandle him back into position as soon as he moves. “’Course! The smell was… incredible. But you said that we couldn’t possibly have the croissants for breakfast, paczki for lunch and pierogi for dinner. _You_ said you’d explode!”

[Paczki](https://polonia-genewa.ch/wp-content/uploads/2018/02/doskonale-paczki-domowe.jpg), pronounced: ‘pom – tshky’ as they eventually learned, having botched it God knows how many times as: ‘pak – moment of hesitation – zky’, are a local take on the humble doughnut, except they’re _better_, in every respect.

Almost twice as big for a start, made out of extra fluffy, supper-light cake mixture, stuffed to bursting with a variety of fillings, fried fresh right in front of you, covered in a thin layer of icing and topped with candied orange peel, they are -

Kili stood in front of the display window watching a batch be prepared and outright whimpered the whole time.

And there is an entire side street worth of bakeries, specialising in making just the paczki, vying for the clientele and giving Kili something of an existential crisis.

“I did, yes,” Fili agrees. “Which is why I got us paczki for _supper_ instead.”

“You didn’t!!”

“I _did_, while you were getting your magnets. Mind you, I have no idea what we actually have; I just pointed and got one of each.”

Kili makes a noise that causes Fili throw a nervous glance at the cameras and pulls him flush for a tight, slippery hug.

Fili’s anatomy appreciates the gesture very much. He can only hope that it _stops_ appreciating it by the time they have to get out.

“There, there,” Fili reluctantly removes his brother, before their bath privileges are revoked. “They’re upstairs; you can have them as soon as we get back. For now though… It’s _my_ turn!”

The squabble for the sponge lasts full 5 minutes, from the moment when Kili stares at him cheekily and declares: “you want it? Come and get it then!” but eventually, as always, they both end up exactly where they want to be: giggling on top of Fili’s bed, relaxed, wrinkled like prunes and near-comatose from sugar.

\---


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would suggest reading once without clicking the links and then again, with the links. Otherwise it will keep taking you out of the story.

Kili wakes up warm.

It’s the rain, he thinks, yet again drumming softly against the roof above. Their entire trip has been dominated by steady rain with an occasional dash of nasty, howling winds.

He yawns, blinks sleepily at the wooden beams supporting the ceiling and automatically rolls over to wrap himself around the warm, familiar body to his left.

That makes him content.

They’ve chosen to book an Air BnB for their stay in Cracow – it’s unusual for them, but Fili thought they might need a little bit of privacy, a space of their own, and a place that is a home rather than a hotel.

He was right.

The top floor flat is old enough to make it out-dated, but recent enough to prevent it from being a period property. It reminds Kili a bit of their own attic flat above their hostel, before they gutted it and painstakingly renovated it to create a space that would be truly their own.

It has potential, this.

But it’s not home.

The mattress on which they’re sleeping is very uncomfortable – worn out in a way that somehow manages to make it simultaneously too hard and too soft. The duvet is too thin, pillows are way too flat, even propped up with spare towels under them, and outside the traffic at the end of the road interferes with Kili’s enjoyment of the rain.

He snuggles up closer to his brother. Even Fili’s soft, blond tresses smell all wrong, after he’s washed them last night with that stupid mint shampoo left for them in the bathroom. They’ll have to remember to pick a small bottle of something more suitable when they venture outside.

Miffed, Kili presses his nose into the crook of Fili’s neck and takes a deep breath. _Here_ he still smells right, like he always does – a smell he’s known his whole life.

Ever since – well, always.

He remembers his seven year old self, struck by a cold and a nine year old Fili doing his homework right there, propped up against the wall at the bottom of the bed. The constant cough was the worst, exhausting him and robbing him of his sleep, until Kili didn’t even have the strength to rise to the occasional jibes and teasing.

“Die quietly,” Fili orders eventually, snapping his notebook shut; he tries to sound annoyed but it only comes out as worried.

And then he crawls with all his scrawny knees and elbows all over Kili’s covers to flop down on top of him and wrap an arm around the mound of misery that is Kili. It’s to stop him shaking apart from all the rattling, Kili thinks, but in the end it’s the smell, the same smell he knows now, that finally allows him to drift off into sleep.

(The next day Fili gets told off for only having half his homework done and detention for arguing with the teacher).

Kili’s can’t imagine _not_ loving all that fierce loyalty, or trying to tear himself away from that familiar touch so he might sample another.

Kili of today loves Fili for a million other little things he’s learned ever since.

The way the pads of Fili’s fingers feel impossibly dry and coarse after he’s been re-grouting the guest showers with silicon to try and avoid that _one_ reviewer who posts pictures of every smallest spot of mould they can find.

How he doesn’t like biting into a runny egg yolk because it ‘goes everywhere and that’s just _not necessary_’, or, more to the point, because it goes in his beard and once or twice he hasn’t noticed.

How he firmly believes that being able to iron out the lacy edges of table cloths or curtains without creases can only be achieved through a pact with the devil.

How much he loves the coarse hair on his chest getting scratched lightly or petted; or how his toes curl when Kili is really good to him.

His quiet humming as he polishes off the freshly cleaned windows with a newspaper so he doesn’t get any smudges.

His habit of licking off jam straight from the bread knife after spreading it on his toast, or the fact that he’s completely oblivious of what it does to Kili.

The way he looks in his ridiculous straw hat, with the sea lapping gently at his ankles from where he’s set up his easel on a flat, submerged rock to paint the promenade.

Kili even loves him for trying to re-create that cooling effect when he paints at the café sometimes, hauling a small basin of cold water outside to plonk his feet in, and then subsequently padding all over the pavement and café floor on wet feet, leaving trails of footprints like some sort of a cat who’s walked straight through a spill.

And if Kili tries to unconsciously match his own steps to those of his brother at such times –

He doesn’t notice when he drifts back into sleep with his head full of stupid adoration and his heart full of – just full.

Outside the rain continues, the cars rush by and in the slightly lower block of flats on the opposite side of the street an elderly man settles down with a small dog in his lap and a newspaper, to watch the people pass in front of his windows.

\---

Sleeping in costs them some of the tickets to the Royal Residence, or Wawel (pronounced: ‘Vavel’ because Ws are Vs in disguise, apparently), where the number of entries is limited per day and assigned to a specific hour, but Kili is unperturbed by the fact.

It feels very touristy, this, and they’re generally not very keen on tourist traps.

Still, they do the mandatory tour of the [State Rooms](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/linane/11800035/225952/225952_original.jpg), with a single audio guide between them, a shared pair of Fili’s earbuds giving them the perfect excuse to stay close and in-step. The ornate objects and tapestries are beautiful, but Kili can’t help but think that none of this is _real history_, used and loved by ordinary people in times gone by, which he could connect with somehow.

Fili likes the architecture though, stopping every now and then to sketch some cornice or relief in his pad, causing the staff – between 1 and 4 in each room – to watch him less than charitably. Kili doesn’t rush him; to him there’s more value in Fili’s little sketches than anything else here.

Outside, the arty trend continues, when Fili gets seduced by the [golden domes of the Royal Chapel](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/linane/11800035/219570/219570_original.jpg) (tickets all sold out) and pitches camp on one of the benches so he can get his watercolours out.

Kili leaves him to it, borrowing Fili’s semi-professional camera for some panoramic shots from the ramparts across the courtyard.

Cracow is a sprawling city, mostly flat, except for the tall rock formation on which the Wawel complex is situated, and Kili thinks that if he was a king, some 700 years ago, this is exactly where he’d build his palace too.

And then he thinks about the winters, the ever-present cold, howling wind, the sheer _exposure_ of this place. He thinks of men on horseback, ladies in elaborate dresses with their favourite dachshunds, and staff running up and down the hill with messages, invoices, goods…

And that’s just it, Kili thinks, turning around to lean against the decorative turrets and peer back at the [courtyard](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/linane/11800035/225587/225587_original.jpg): it’s cold. This whole place, to Kili, feels first and foremost _cold_.

By the time he gets back, Fili has managed to attract a small crowd.

Used to the tourists trying to peer over his shoulder, he dishes out sunny smiles and tries to respond to the compliments in his rudimentary Polish: “gio – cu – yem”, to the general delight of everyone present.

But Kili watches his hands: stiff and only dabbing the smallest of strokes, more tinkering than actually paining.

Fili is cold; cold like this place, and for a moment Kili is worried that it will sink into his bones and leave him forever searching for the real warmth they know so well.

“Fee, I’m _starving_!” he declares in a whining tone, aimed and successful at breaking the same spell which is making Fili feel obliged to keep going for the benefit of the onlookers. “Feed me, or face the consequences!”

Fili laughs, but there’s a grateful note in that; a note that only Kili will pick up.

“That’s my cue. He’s _impossible_ when he’s hungry!” he pretend-grumbles, winding down his shop.

They wave their goodbyes, but instead of heading back towards the entrance, Fili lets himself be tugged in the opposite direction.

“To the Dragon’s Den!” Kili decides for them both, pleased when his warm fingers close around Fili’s chilled ones.

“There’s a Dragon’s Den?” Fili eyes him curiously, instantly hooked on the idea.

“Once upon a time –“ Kili takes their slow descent of approximately 700 million spiral steps as his chance to show off his knowledge of local legends – “there was a fierce dragon, who took residence here and terrorised the city. It ate nothing but local virgins, which I imagine drove something of a trend to get de-virginised as soon as possible…”

There’s a familiar snort from below and several, _unfamiliar_ giggles from behind him.

“The king, who probably liked his supply of local virgins,” Kili continues, getting somewhat dizzy, “offered half the kingdom and the princess’ hand in marriage as a reward for whoever killed the dragon. Many knights have tried, but only ended up as a sort of canned dragon ready-meal as a result.”

“And you’re taking _me_ down there,” comes a dry response from below and more chortled laughter from above. “You sure know how show a guy a good time –“

“Shhh, listen! Eventually, the local cobbler took on the challenge. He killed a sheep, stuffed it full of sulphur and left it at the Den’s entrance. The beast of course gobbled it right up –“

“I thought you said it only ate virgins.”

Kili swears under his breath, to the general glee and merriment of the people behind him. “Listen, we don’t know about the levels of personal hygiene among the local virgins! Or how often they shaved! Perhaps there was some, uh, resemblance…”

The lot behind him collectively _loses_ it. Fili, who must have slowed down just for this, appears around the corner, sporting a face that says: ‘_really_?! You went _there_, did you?’

Kili cheerfully shrugs. “Anyway, the point is, it gobbled up the sheep and promptly learned what a ‘reflux from hell’ is.”

“It died of indigestion.”

“No. _Fili_!”

“Sorry.”

“It felt such burning in its gut that it crawled out of its den and started drinking the river dry. It drank and it drank and it drank and –“ it’s a lot like those goddamn stairs, Kili decides, holding on to the railing for dear life, going down and down and down and – “and then it burst!”

The people behind him start clapping.

Kili, who has been entirely focussed on his story and where to put his feet next, walks right into Fili.

Fili stumbles, but keeps his balance, mainly because they’re finally at the cave’s floor.

“And so the cobbler won half a princess, etc. etc.” Kili finishes breathlessly, now holding on to his brother, as the world spins wildly all around him.

“You okay?” Fili asks gently, helping stabilise him and moving them out of the way, so others can pass.

“Perfectly, now that I’m here,” Kili sends him a reassuring grin, before peering around curiously.

The [cave](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/linane/11800035/217558/217558_original.jpg) is what he’d describe as ‘comfortable size’ – broad enough for a group of people to pass through together and tall enough that nobody needs to crouch. Yes, there are places where the passage is narrower or the ceiling is lower, but the whole thing is beautifully lit, so it’s not a problem. It feels cool, damp and mysterious with the way light casts fantastical shadows onto the walls, but it’s also too… well-maintained, for how Kili imagines proper caves.

“Was there at least some kind of a dragon hoard, in that story of yours?” Fili asks hopefully, following after him and kicking speculatively at the neat, white gravel lining the floor. “Piles of gold and precious jewels…?”

“No, no hoard. I told you: only tinned knights.” Kili lags behind to look at what appears to be an off-shoot to the side.

“Every good dragon story needs a decent hoard. They’d be making at least twice as much in tourist traffic if there was a dragon hoard. Even better if it was an _undiscovered_ one. Though I suppose they’d have to brick up –“

The cave ends abruptly, after less than a 100 meters.

Fili squints against the light, steps outside – and instantly ducks.

In front of the Den’s entrance there’s a [sculpture of the dragon](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/linane/11800035/217217/217217_original.jpg): not very big, dark, irregular, somewhat abstract looking, but it does –

“Ooooooh, it breathes fire!” Kili observes excitedly, watching Fili straighten up with as much dignity as he can muster and stick out his tongue at a small group of giggling children.

“There should be a sign. It’s loud when it first fires off,” the blond grumbles, narrowing his eyes at the offending artwork. “Well, that’s… anticlimactic.”

“It just made you jump.”

“It’s not very big. I mean, that’s hardly a lizard.”

“Apparently even a lizard is plenty much for you.”

“I could take it. I _totally_ could!”

“Yeah, yeah…”

“But why would I? Not even a hoard to its name, honestly!”

If the easy banter between the two of them helps soothe Fili’s bruised ego, Kili doesn’t mention it. The sun is finally out for a few precious minutes, the river side walk feels much more peaceful than the hectic palace courtyard and it’s only their first day in Cracow.

\---

Cracow is definitely a city of artists.

That much is evident from the moment they cross St. Florian’s Gate, only to discover that the city walls along the inside have been turned into a [giant display space](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/linane/11800035/216552/216552_original.jpg).

Kili loses Fili there for a good hour, while his brother contemplates the use of light and colour, compares styles, strikes a conversation with the other artist and despairs over the fact that he hasn’t brought his oils with him.

It leaves Kili free to investigate a street food cart, from which he procures what must be a local specialty: a giant pretzel. It’s made from a kind of dense dough, dipped in salt and sesame seeds, and very, very filling.

He shares half with Fili, grateful that he didn’t try to get two.

From there, they make their way towards the Old Town Square with its central Cloth Hall called ‘[Sukiennice](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/linane/11800035/220250/220250_original.jpg)’ and [St. Mary’s Basilica](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/linane/11800035/219907/219907_original.jpg).

Kili pauses in front of it, chewing his baked goods in deep concentration. “Look at the [spires](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/linane/11800035/223465/223465_original.jpg), Fee! They’re a bit like us: one tall and one –“

“- Of appropriate size for the rest of the structure,” Fili finishes for him, looking distinctly unimpressed, as he feeds the last of his pretzel to the readily flocking pigeons.

“Just what I was going to say,” Kili chirps shamelessly.

They mooch around for a while, checking out more local art for sale, milling aimlessly among the [Cloth Hall](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/linane/11800035/223925/223925_original.jpg)’s stalls full of overpriced tourist tat, and admiring beautiful horses, providing equally overpriced [carriage rides](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/linane/11800035/218590/218590_original.jpg) around the Square.

They almost miss the Market Underground; the entrance looks like an unassuming door to one of the shops and there’s no visible sign, apart from the opening hours.

Once they’re in, they’re glad that they didn’t.

If Fili had a field day with the local artists, Kili’s greatest highlight is the Underground.

Located directly underneath the Cloth Hall building and the Town Square itself, the Museum is good-sized, modern and extremely well organised. There are original [cobbles](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/linane/11800035/216020/216020_original.jpg) and [kerbstones](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/linane/11800035/218971/218971_original.jpg), [cellars](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/linane/11800035/223590/223590_original.jpg), re-constructed [dwellings](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/linane/11800035/217715/217715_original.jpg), complete with sounds and artificial daylight, XI century [burials](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/linane/11800035/214113/214113_original.jpg), endless coins, [jewellery](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/linane/11800035/224472/224472_original.jpg), shoes and little trinkets lost by people over time, Medieval [piped water system](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/linane/11800035/225324/225324_original.jpg), lots of clever and informative multimedia displays, including 6 store rooms re-purposed for [screening halls](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/linane/11800035/223067/223067_original.jpg), showing the city’s turbulent past from its very beginning to the modern day.

Kili is blown away. They do the whole thing once and then most of it again, surreptitiously attaching themselves to a guided tour in English.

“Wow. Just – wow!” Kili marvels, when they finally re-surface. “It’s all just… _there_, where it’s been dropped or purposefully covered, for _centuries_, [they just built a path through it all](http://www.podziemiarynku.com/index.php?dzial=oszlaku) and put some railings and giant screens in! Imagine back at home, what could be found under the cobbles!”

“The sea,” Fili points out gently. “Mostly, you’d find the sea; this is why we don’t have cellars.”

“Well, maybe we couldn’t have a permanent display like this one, but we could excavate! And our town used to be a port! All those trading routes –“

Fili, being the best partner in the world (in Kili’s opinion) only smiles at him affectionately and business himself catering to Kili’s less important needs.

Such as food. How many hours have they been underground? When did it get dark?!

More importantly: did Fili know that the two burials under the glass floor earlier were original and contained authentic remains?!

Fili listens patiently, pulling the two of them in the direction of the little side streets, where hopefully some cheaper-than-extortionate grub can be found. He knows Kili well enough to realise that the excited chatter will slow down, but continue over potato cakes, smoked and salted goats’ cheese or sour rye soup (‘zurek’), if they can find any. In fact, it will probably continue well into the night, and in the morning he’s going to find Kili dead to the world, having exhausted himself with all the excitements of the previous day.

\---

“Here, hold this.”

Fili, who just then is holding a paper cup full of hot, mulled wine in one hand and the umbrella in the other, awkwardly closes the 3 fingers he can spare around the rolling pin’s handle.

They’re in the Small Market, situated just behind the Old Town Square and filled to the brim with cute little stalls, full of hand-crafted items and local cuisine. For the most part, they’re happy to just stroll around, taking in the lively atmosphere of the place, admiring the handicrafts and letting others spend their money on things they don’t need.

Except for the [rolling pins](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/linane/11800035/222840/222840_original.jpg); the rolling pins _taunt_ Kili.

They’ve seen them in multiple places as far back as Poznan, and each time he’s lingered behind, commenting on the variety of designs cut into them, debating the pros and cons of getting one as a souvenir.

Now, on their last day, Kili has finally caved in.

“I like this floral design, that floral design, the one you’re holing, the one with the cockerels… Oh _God_, that one has dinosaurs on it!”

Fili, patient like only Fili can be, eyes Kili’s collection, corners of his lips twitching upwards. “I like the cocks,” he announces to the whole wide world. “It’s still folkloric in design, but more interesting than the flowers.”

Kili stifles a giggle, just.

“Cocks it is,” he decides, passing the pin to the seller.

They walk away huddled close under the one umbrella, but not until the middle-aged, well-wrapped-up lady behind the counter informs them that they’re ‘very handsome boys’ and offers them some of her cookies, made using her rolling pins.

Kili takes a heavenly sip of mulled wine casually passed back to him by Fili, feeling very appreciative of the pleasant warmth instantly spreading all through his chilled body.

To him, Poland will always be the land of good food and vibrant history; of impossible pronunciation, Fili’s sunny smiles and gentle teasing. A place with a little bit of magic still infused into the cobbles.

And –

“Hold that.” He passes the cup back to Fili, having taken the first bite of his cookie.

“Hm?”

But Kili is already rushing back to the stall, pulling his phone out. “Excuse me! You wouldn’t happen to have a recipe for those amazing cookies, would you?”

\---


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would suggest reading once without clicking the links and then again, with the links. Otherwise it will keep taking you out of the story.

The trip to London for the Tutankhamun’s Exhibition is Kili’s birthday present.

In truth, Kili is more into local history – his favourite thing to do during his now-famous orientation walks is to skilfully weave together historical fact, legend and downright gossip.

(The locals are less than pleased about that last part, but at least Bilbo seems grateful for a kindred spirit to share the burdens of his knowledge with).

But since nobody seems to be organising any epic exhibitions about any of the above, Fili is forced to improvise.

Besides, Egypt never fails to fire one’s imagination and Kili is no exception – Fili will never forget (and Kili will never live down) that one time when Kili, aged 8, stole their mother’s eyeliner and following several failed attempts at using it (eyes very, very red, overall excellent panda look) pretended to be the pharaoh.

“You weren’t much better, as I recall, walking around with a feather duster and a meat tenderiser crossed on your chest and claiming to be my _guardian god_,” Kili observes dryly.

“My tenderiser privileges didn’t last,” Fili deflects. “Mum confiscated it and gave me a ladle instead. What was I supposed to _do_ with a ladle?! Serve your enemies soup to death?!”

“Well,” Kili pauses in front of a beautiful, [ceremonial shield](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/linane/11800035/220880/220880_original.jpg) depicting the pharaoh slaying some lions, held rather like a bunch of radishes, “if you were my Egyptian god, you wouldn’t have to worry about any of those technicalities. You could just go about smiting, changing form, swallowing the sun –“

“- Being Baghera to your Mowgli…”

“God, but it’s _exquisite_,” Kili moans, joining Fili in front of the small [sculpture](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/linane/11800035/213987/213987_original.jpg). “Look at the painted sandals! Look at the muscles of its paws! And to think that XVI century Old Masters painted lions like puppies on a bad hair day.”

“To be honest, I’m not at all sure I want to be your [Baghera](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/linane/11800035/213640/213640_original.jpg). Not after how the lions ended up.”

“How about my Horus?” Kili breathes reverently, staring at an all-gilded [hawk with the sun-disc](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/linane/11800035/218704/218704_original.jpg) on top of its head.

Fili throws a quick glance at the wide, dark eyes and an expression of awe on a face he loves.

“Yeah, alright,” he murmurs, feeling drawn closer, as if it was his destiny. “I’d be your Horus.”

It could be a lovely conclusion to that particular fantasy, if only Fili left it at that.

Fili does not leave it at that. “Of course, you’d have to worship me appropriately, for all those random acts of smiting, nudging the sun to go up, making the world go round and other vital services.”

“They actually believed the Earth was a flat disc, floating on top of an ocean,” Kili does his own deflecting.

“For making sure your pancake doesn’t capsize then,” Fili huffs.

Kili laughs. “My hero,” he murmurs, leaning in to press a little peck to Fili’s cheek.

“It’s just what I do,” Fili smirks, allowing himself to be pulled into the next gallery, where the true ‘star of the show’ exhibits are located.

“You know what really gets me about these?” Kili asks seriously, admiring an [elaborately gilded](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/linane/11800035/225146/225146_original.jpg), [wooden statue shrine](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/linane/11800035/218125/218125_original.jpg). “How pristine all of it is. We’re used to Egyptian stuff being a little scuffed, knocked about by history and chipped as a result. This stuff is 3300 years old and it looks like it’s only just been made. And I bet you there isn’t a single imperfect line or a motif on any of those.”

“They just don’t make ‘em like they used to,” Fili quips, sending him an affectionate smile. “Good birthday present?”

“The best, Fili. The. Best.”


End file.
